The Robin's Egg

It must have fallen in last night's storm. Still
whole of oval, blue unreal, until I touch it,
see the seepage, then know it has hollowed out.

The robin has been flying low, back and over
the egg. Her singing is louder than yesterday.

I think of Kenkō: no beauty comes
from perfection. Always a tiny sever,
some stipple in the things we covet.

I have been false in my worship of the whole.

Walking from the gravel pit, you return
with delight over the deer skeleton—
vertebrae still in line, followed by an empty
pelvis. We take turns holding it.

I walk only the paved road, dodge trucks
with loud radios, men jeering out the windows.

The robin has returned to hop-hunting
around the front lawn. She still has her nest.

Today, I took your trail around the pit's edge
to find the wild cranberry bog you spoke of.

The red berries, their tongue-shape leaves, await
me. Again, I am ready to kneel, convinced.

Copyright © 2005 Ruth Levine All rights reserved
from Small Spiral Notebook
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission